


The Skins We Can't Shed

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing, Discovery, Identity Issues, M/M, Madeleine Era, Romani Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:37:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> If someone were to find this and Javert had not died in the process—unlikely, but not impossible—he would merely state that they belonged to someone he once knew. It would not be a lie, in the same way that it is not a lie that he's never had a given name.</i> Javert indulges himself on a day off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Skins We Can't Shed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [kinkmeme.](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=497697#t497697)

There is a box, battered and old, that Javert treats most curiously. He keeps it hidden at all times, and if by chance he comes across it, he scowls at it as if it is an overgrowth of mold. Certainly he should like to expunge it from his life as one would mold—and yet it has followed him on all his journeys, tucked in his trunk with more kindness than anything else he owns. Some mornings, when he has come in from a long night of patrol, he even sets it on the foot of his bed and glares at it, as if he is facing down an impressive enemy. Almost always he returns it to its hiding place, scoffing as he does. With no one to witness it and no one to impress, however, he cannot stop himself from nervously fussing at his collar or from cracking his knuckles, a habit that he quit thirty years ago. 

Very, very rarely, and with no prior indication that he should want to, Javert will take the box out from its hiding place, set it on his bed, and open it, revealing its contents. Perhaps he is moved to by a dream, or a change in the weather, or a fit of misplaced nostalgia—perhaps he does not know entirely why himself. The only consistent variable is that he has the day off. Usually this means that he is sick—but no matter how he coughs or sniffs, he is gentle with the box, and always careful to handle its contents with clean hands.

If the box is a curious matter, its contents are another thing entirely.

The colors in the box are so vivid that they startle the eye—Javert's lodgings, inevitably drab and sparse, seem darker in comparison, and his clothes, plain and utilitarian, seem like ash in a long-dead hearth. The fabric inside is the color of fresh blood; underneath the top layer is a vivid yellow that beams out at Javert's dark room. Underneath this is another splash of red, dotted with blue flowers, and underneath that, a single golden necklace with a teal pendant. The necklace was a gift. The rest is Javert's, paid for many decades ago at great expense, one that he still feels in the hollow of his stomach when he touches the fabric. 

The first layer of fabric is a long, layered skirt. The second, a low-cut blouse. The third, a scarf. If someone were to find this and Javert had not died in the process—unlikely, but not impossible—he would merely state that they belonged to someone he once knew. It would not be a lie, in the same way that it is not a lie that he's never had a given name. Javert has always had a fine eye for technicalities.

Tonight, the snow is falling in thick swirls outside Javert's window, and the sun set half an hour ago. Javert already had his supper, and asked his housekeeper for privacy. Thankfully, she accepted this without question. Despite the weather, Javert would be dressing in his greatcoat and bracing himself for a fruitless night of patrol, but M. Madeleine insisted earlier that morning that Javert leave it be, on the pretense that no one would be out causing trouble in this weather. 

As such, Javert has plenty of time for his thoughts to accumulate and overflow. He has time to sit on the edge of his bed and stroke the soft red fabric of the skirt. He remains in contemplation for nearly half an hour, teasing the fabric between his fingers, watching the snow fall outside. Then, without precursor, Javert stands and begins to undress. There's no fire in his stove, but he even removes his stockings, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet to avoid stepping wholly on the hardwood floor. Once fully nude, he stands very still, letting the cold air wash over him and elicit goosebumps on his arms and legs. He cups a hand over himself, teasing a thumb along the soft flesh, a thoughtless gesture.  
Then, delicately, he pulls the skirt from its box, letting it unfold. The wrinkles are deep, as it hasn't been taken out of the box in many years, but he shakes the dust away and admires the way the fabric shivers, loose and responsive. He steps into it and fastens it on his left side. When he bought the skirt, it fell to his ankles, but he's since grown, and it leaves his ankles exposed. When the skirt is secure, he twists his hips so that the cool fabric brushes at his bare legs; he shudders. It is temptation itself. 

He takes as much care with the shirt, which is also too small, and tight about his chest; he's thankful that the sleeves have fabric to work with, so that his arms, at least, aren't constricted. As he adjusts the blouse, he is aware that his pulse has shifted to work between his legs, a dull pounding. His face is hot. He strains his ears, listening for footsteps up the stairs or down the hall—there's nothing. Javert breathes out shakily. He fingers the exposed line of his chest; his nipples harden at the touch. He adjusts the shirt just to feel the fabric rub against them. He is half-erect, the swelling of his cock making the skirt's soft fabric slide over him like a lover's hand. 

Javert bites his wrist. Not yet. He still has the _diklo,_ his saving grace, the one thing that keeps this from depravity. He is not some overeager harlot. He has earned this through a dedicated marriage to the law. He spends every waking moment in devotion. This is a small thing to ask in return. 

When he bends over the box, the skirt brushes at his sensitive cock, a constant reminder of what he's doing. He ignores it and carefully picks the scarf from the box; it has been folded neatly, but he unfolds it, shaking it out of its slumber. He refolds it with the precision that has elevated him to his station in life. He ties it over his hair, firm with the knot so that it will not slip. (It has, before, when his face was pressed into the mattress and he was overexcited; his hair had spilled onto the pillow like a shameful secret.) 

There. That leaves only the necklace. Javert eyes it warily, palming himself through the skirt. It is a noose, a terrible reminder of who he is, who he's been. It carries with it the stench of prison and the immeasurable weight of shame. But Javert is not ungrateful, even when the gift is a trick horse—he will welcome this sword with open arms and bleed out with his head high. 

He does not need to clasp it behind his neck; the chain is cold as ice on his neck, and the pendant hangs heavily against his chest.

Javert takes a moment to drown. His bare feet burn with the cold; he shuts his eyes and spins slowly, light on his feet as he moves. The pendant swings; the skirt swirls against his legs; cold air rushes under its wide embrace and makes his balls tighten. Javert shivers violently and bites back a moan. His erection rubs insistently against the skirt, and his pulse is quick, now, needy. He has taken long enough.

He climbs onto the bed on his hands and knees and grips himself through the skirt. The firmness of his hand is a blessed contrast to the delicate femininity of the cloth, and he wrings his hand in quick, rough movements. His hips thrust into his hand. It never takes long like this—sometimes he spends whole nights bringing himself to climax, playing with the necklace in the long moments between, half-dreaming of prison walls. 

There is a knock on his door.

"Inspector Javert?" 

Javert promptly falls off the bed.

"...Inspector? Is everything all right?"

"Yes! Yes, you only—only startled me." Javert can hardly breathe. His anger and panic and arousal are a maelstrom twisting inside, and he scrambles to his feet. Where are his clothes? What in _God's name does Madeleine want?_ In his panicked hunting, Javert glances to the window—and yes, the snow is still coming down, fat flakes that swirl in the wind. 

"May I come in?"

"No!" Javert throws off the _diklo_ with one hand while yanking on his trousers with the other; he stuffs the skirt hastily into one of the legs. "Only—pardon, pardon, I need a moment to collect myself." He entertains a vivid fantasy about strangling Madeleine—and to his utter dismay, he comes. God help him, he does not want to know why. He has no idea how he'll clean the skirt. 

Madeleine clears his throat in the hall, clearly uncomfortable. "I could come back." 

Javert throws on his greatcoat and buttons it as hastily as he can; he checks himself in the window to make sure the blouse and skirt are not visible. Perhaps his trousers look strange, but damn, damn, it will have to do. Javert crosses the room and throws the door open, hoping his face does not show how livid he is. "Nonsense," he says, breathless, and smiles thinly. M. Madeleine is covered in a layer of snow and his boots are thickly padded with it. "I was not aware Monsieur knew where I lived," he says through gritted teeth. "How can I be of service?"

For a moment, Madeleine only stands in the doorway and stares at Javert. Then he glances into the room. The box rests on the bed like a bad omen. Javert's emission is sticky and warm against him, and he can feel the color in his face. Madeleine looks back to Javert—then down to Javert's feet, which are still bare. "I..."

"Ah, Monsieur, I knew you were attached to animals, but I didn't know you were in the habit of letting cats have your tongue." Javert's hand trembles on the door. He knows he should invite M. Madeleine inside, but he will not. 

"Actually," Madeleine says delicately, "I think this is a matter that can wait until tomorrow. I—overestimated its importance. Forgive me for disturbing you, Inspector." He inclines his head, studiously keeping his eyes away from Javert. His face is reddened from the cold and flushed from embarrassment. Javert could kill him. He would gladly serve the time. 

"Monsieur, I insist you tell me what it is." 

"No...no. Tomorrow. If the weather permits. Pardon me, Javert. Excuse me." He glances at Javert's neck, and with one last _pardonne,_ he turns and hurries down the hall. 

Javert slams the door. To stay the urge to scream, he begins to pace feverishly. The stuffed trousers constrict his movement; with an angry snarl he throws them off, so that he's pacing back and forth in his greatcoat and the skirt, both of which billow impressively about him as he moves. He stops in front of the window, bristling and cracking his knuckles. 

Then he sees his mistake: Underneath the collar, half-hidden but gleaming, is the gold chain of the necklace. It is confession enough.


End file.
